This Woman Is Sufferaging...

I love mail.  I love getting mail with my name on it.  Samples from companies, magazines, heck, throw in the occasional medical bill.  It's for me.  It makes me feel important.  I've done a lot worse than enjoy mail in the name of low self-esteem.
Anyhow.
Poor Beloved's only mail seems to be advertisements for Important Homeowner's Insurance that he Must Not Delay in purchasing. 
In other words:  junk mail. 
Not to be left out, I've started getting junk mail.  In regards to our wedding.  Beloved gets the manly things, like sway mail regarding allowing the racino in Biddeford and supplemental insurance policies, and I get the lady junk mail.  Advertisements for places in Maine I couldn't put a pin on in the DeLorme, wanting us to come spend my parents' hard-earned money on for one party reflecting my Misery-style commitment to Beloved. 
Having this junk mail doesn't make it any easier for me to make any plans.  We've only just narrowed it down to the weekend of such and such a month because we now have Beloved's work schedule for next year (that electricity doesn't make itself, folks.  And, I've learned, it doesn't come from flipping on a light switch.  I could never pinch-hit as a Roving Operator.  Oh well.  Someone has to watch "Last Man Standing.")
But, having the manly junk mail is learning me some important lessons:  when we're supposed to vote again for the Prezzy Prez.  I don't keep track.  I also choose to vote by absentee ballot, because voting in public is just like going to Walmart:  it just shouldn't be done after 8 a.m.  Because everyone is there.  And have you seen Our Fellow Men recently? 
So Beloved schooled me that we vote for the Prez every 4 years (that part I vaguely remembered) and we'd know which year we were supposed to vote in when it was divisible by 4.  So we vote in '12 because it's divisible by 4.  It was the dang 12 that got stuck in my head.  I somehow thought that was the number to remember, and the number 8 came into play via the news (I only get channel 2 and we know that is NOT Maine news...Portland is barely Maine) and I texted:  "8 is not divisible by 12" to a groggy Beloved on his 2nd night of night shift. 
Smarty Carhartts Beloved:  "I'm half asleep and I have to call to explain this to you again?"
Dumb Pajamas Me: "Well, I'm half awake..."
SCB:  "Hon, if the year is divisible by 4, we vote for the President in that year."
DPM:  "Oh, so 12 has nothing to do with it?"
SCB:  "No.  Only that we're doing some Presidential voting in 2012."
DPM:  "Fantastic.  I've a handle on it now."

Just wait until I need him to 'splain the candidates and their platforms to me.